Nestyn, Sunday night. If you're reading this Diane, I'll deal with you on the 7th. But if you really were spying on Clore, methinks revelations such as "he's got an A* in art history" hardly require a rethink of the Get Real! strategy with which I will win this campaign. More likely, knowing the Lib Dems, you're a double agent. But either way, congratulations: terminal embarrassment was just the ticket in the week the media identified Nestyn as one of those naive, provincial marginals that's less than two hours from London for colour writers on a schedule.

What with Diane's recent defection – and the possibility, however unlikely, that they'd bothered to Google "Scuttle + expenses" before coming – it was a relief, at first, that the fancier hacks (unless the cravats and hats were camouflage) were too busy ogling "stunning blonde Pippa" and "fresh-faced Nat", and signing autographs (Diane recognised one off the telly), to contact the man who's represented Nestyn since '97. Wasn't 'til Saturday that I bumped into a couple, plus snappers, posing in a garden. Should I join them? Silence. Any questions?

"Those divine pink flowers, what are they, Ron? Do tell," said the one in spats. "And do you think these gnomes would mind if I tossed a few pennies into their sweet wishing well? Are you frightfully proud of your wishing wells?" I confirmed that Nestyn's gardens are, indeed, a credit to our hardworking families and yet – Get Real! – something that could be destroyed overnight by a hung parliament. Message across, I fetched the coolbox. Lager-o'clock! Did they fancy a ham roll? Plenty to spare. "Dear Ron," Spats said, shuddering, "I shall never forget this."

Nor will anyone else since this morning's spread: "Can Anyone Save Grim Nestyn?" In which Spats, still recuperating, asks if it's fair to ask sensitive candidates such as Pippa or Nat to endure "the lurid pink vegetation – 'begonias', anyone? – that crawls all over the curtain-twitching, would-be refined suburbs of this forgotten outpost of industria" for long enough to effect Nestyn's entry into the civilised world. "Perhaps it is a kind of justice," he concludes, "that somewhere this ghastly should be represented by a fat, ugly nonentity who eats ham rolls."